


Garreg Mach Galleria

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autistic Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Blacksmithing, CEO, Daydreaming, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Fluff, Gay Sylvain Jose Gautier, Love at First Sight, Loving Marriage, Mercedes Weekend (Fire Emblem), Multi, Shopping Mall AU, Sibling Bonding, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, barista, emotional angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: From CEO Edelgard, to fashion store clerk Hilda, to bumbling barista Dimitri.Garreg Mach Galleria - Fódlan's largest mall - houses countless small businesses and shops alike.In a modern AU, the students of Garreg Mach all work under one roof, but lead very different - and often eventful - lives.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Mercedes von Martritz, Caspar von Bergliez & Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault & Petra Macneary, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 103





	1. Thunderbrand - The Swordsmith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix has found the perfect store for him - a novelty blacksmith’s, specialising in blade-making. He is an apprentice under Catherine’s watchful eye, but when an irritating customer attempts to flirt with him, Felix’s love of weapons comes to bite him.

“Hey-hey! It’s Felix!” Catherine’s muffled voice cut through the sounds of clattering as Felix entered the store. “How’s my favourite apprentice!?”

Felix’s brow furrowed as he peered behind the counter, at where his boss stood over her workstation in the back of the shop. “I’m your _only_ apprentice,” he said back.

The woman lifted the visor of her welding mask to reveal her beaming face, dark smudges already lining her olive-toned skin. “Doesn’t mean you aren’t my favourite!”

Felix crossed the room silently to where a row of aprons were strung up on hooks against the wall. He took one - black leather besmirched by various stains and marks - and hung his denim jacket up in its place. “What’ve you got for me today?"

Catherine approached him now, hands on her hips. “So _eager_ to get down to business! Nah, c’mon, Felix!” She gave him a light punch in the arm. “How was your weekend? What did you get up to?”

The young man’s eyes narrowed, before he rolled them. He was not here for idle chit-chat. He was here for work.

And _oh_ , how he was glad to work here. While Catherine could be slightly overbearing - her bubbly personality a whirlwind at times - he was grateful to be here.

Swords had always fascinated him. As a child, Felix had whined incessantly about wanting to live like the old knights did in fairy tales. Who cared about guns, and tanks, and modern warfare, when _swords_ existed?

Swords, and daggers, and knives. The beautiful sheen of steel - the intricacies of hilt and pommel designs. The sleekness of the blades - the different cuts and curvatures; the tell-tale signatures of each period, or region they hailed from...

He did not think a single day had gone by in his childhood where Glenn hadn’t ruffled his hair to mutter, “ _Sothis_ , you’re obsessed.” Felix had never cared much for the term ‘obsession’, though. He preferred to call it a special interest.

Needless to say, he’d leapt at the apprenticeship opportunity. Wandering into the Garreg Mach Galleria out of boredom, mere days after he’d moved into the centre of Fódlan to be away from the rest of his unbearable family, Felix had been utterly overjoyed to see _Thunderbrand._ A small store and blacksmith's, dedicated to blades. Could he have been any more ecstatic? The blonde-haired woman who owned the place had been a little overwhelming at first - poring over him just as he'd pored over the swords in her shop - but she had _knowledge_.

She knew just as much about swords as he did - had been able to match his excited babblings about her original-dynasty Wo Dao with equal vigour. Felix - jobless and near-penniless - had simply _needed_ to inquire about a job. What he wouldn’t do to spend his every day around the subject he’d dedicated his entire life to - to sell weapons to like-minded individuals, and inspect Catherine’s collection some more...

Now, he’d been here for months, and had taken charge of crafting _Thunderbrand’s_ commission pieces in the store’s workshop. Being surrounded by his most beloved weapons was heaven enough, but being able to _make_ them?

“My weekend was fine,” Felix said to Catherine as he pulled his apron over his head. “I just want to get back to work.”

And Catherine laughed, nudging him once more in the arm. The amount of physical contact she’d been intent on making with him was something he’d had to get used to, but he’d discovered that he almost enjoyed it. Just as he’d enjoyed when Glenn had done it.

“Am I still working on the custom arrowheads for Ms. Nevrand?” Felix asked as Catherine headed past him.

“Yep!” She lowered her mask once more, covering her face as she returned to her workbench. “We didn’t get any more commissions over the weekend, so we can work more on personal stuff once we get through these. If you’d like.”

Felix would like - very much so. 

Yet, seemingly just as he’d followed Catherine behind the counter, the familiar ring of the bell over the door sounded over the racket of welding she’d just begun. Catherine lowered her blowtorch for only for a split second to shout, “Felix! Tend to that, would you?”

The apprentice grit his teeth, but did as asked either way.

A man, tall and broad, had entered the shop, and had begun poking his nose around the swords that sat majestically behind the window. With one large hand, he reached out to touch a hilt, positively manhandling the delicate metal.

It set Felix on edge. He felt himself bristle and call out; people mishandling weapons irritated him more than anything else. “Can I help you over there?” His voice sounded irked, and he did not try to hide it.

The customer turned around, but his startled face softened at once upon locking eyes with the young swordsmith.

Red hair fell over his forehead in handsome loose curls. His jaw was broad, with sharp, high cheekbones welcoming a cocky smirk that began to crawl across his lips. Beneath a handsomely heavy brow bone shone stunning golden-brown eyes.

 _… Shit,_ Felix thought. He did not like when his heart danced like this.

“Well, if you’ll be the one helping me, I need all the help in the world.” The man’s voice matched his eyes - sickly sweet, and as smooth as honey.

Felix’s stomach dropped to the floor. This man - so well-groomed and lascivious - looked like the most stereotypical womaniser the brain could muster. He sported a white dress-shirt tucked into tight black pants; while he wore no tie, three of his shirt buttons were undone to reveal auburn hair coating his chest in a downy fuzz. Felix did not want to admit that the image stirred butterflies within his sickened stomach.

But, he was sickened for another reason. This man just looked so… straight. Dashing smile, eyes upon Felix’s body instead of his face…

What if he’d mistaken Felix for a girl?

The thought made his heart pound so much harder - made him need to breathe a little deeper. The store was already hot and sweaty from the workshop at the back of the room, and beneath the binder he wore, Felix’s ribs felt tight.

This was the entire reason why he’d moved here in the first place: to get away from his family, and from everybody back home who’d refused to accept him for who he was. Why he’d started a new life as a swordsmith’s apprentice, finally following his dream job as well as living his true identity.

All Felix wanted in life was to be acknowledged as the man he was. But now - now that he was being flirted with by a very rude, very heterosexual-looking man - he felt mocked.

He grit his teeth, shoulders tense. “Tell me how I can help you, or leave,” he commanded, willing his voice deeper.

The red-headed man gave another enchanting smirk, cocking his head. “Perhaps you can tell me about this sword?” And he pointed to the one he’d touched, placing his other hand upon a handsome narrow hip.

Warily, Felix stepped closer. “That’s… one Catherine made. Modelled after the feudal greatswords seen in eleventh century Varley territory.”

“Huh. You know all that just from looking at it?”

Felix blinked at him. “Of course. It’s not hard.”

The other man grinned. Felix wasn’t exactly sure what expression had taken over that handsome face; was the smile intrigued? Impressed? Or… mocking?

“You should tell me more some time.” He cocked his head and bit his lip between slightly wonky teeth. Somehow, it was alluring. “You got a number?”

Felix flared up. _Again_ with this flirting? What was this prick thinking?

He jabbed at the name-tag that was pinned to his shirt over a thankfully-flat chest. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he said, successfully masking the waver to his voice, “but I’m a man.”

Honey-brown eyes flickered between the name-tag and Felix’s eyes almost uneasily. “I, uh… I know,” was his response. “That’s… why I asked... _Felix._ ” And he scratched the back of his head, giving a sort of anxious laugh.

Felix felt as though he’d been slapped square across the face. His jaw slacked a little. This guy... was into men?

Scratch that - he was into _Felix?_

The swordsmith’s brow furrowed. He swallowed. He scarcely knew what to do when he was attracted to somebody, but never before in his life had anybody asked for his number.

“You know… never mind.” The red-head gave a bashful smile and took a few steps towards the door. “Sorry if I weirded you out.”

 _No, wait--!_ Felix said internally, but his mouth would not open. Instead, he just looked on, simply watching as the other man opened the door - the bell ringing jovially above him - and stepped out.

“Thanks.” He gave a little wave, and walked away. The door clattered shut behind him.

Felix Hugo Fraldarius had just missed the opportunity to get the number of one of the only people he’d ever been attracted to. He darted over to the window as fast as his legs would take him, peering out to watch the man walk away, and mentally cussed himself out at once. What was _wrong_ with him? Why was he so _hopeless?_ Always so abrasive, and rash, and difficult to like. He’d scared off the only man who’d ever shown an interest in him - the man whose swaggering walk seemed to own the mall he walked through--

 _Oh no,_ Felix thought, growing hot under the collar. _He’s so hot._

He leaned further towards the window, craning his neck to keep his gaze upon the man in the distance. He held onto the Varley greatsword’s hilt for balance, feeling the steel beneath him, until--

His hand slipped. And the blade’s edge bit into the soft skin of his palm as a lioness’ teeth would into its prey: easily, and smoothly.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he cried out at once, pulling his hand away to see a deep slash across his palm, oozing with scarlet. It would look almost fascinating, if it weren’t for the fact that his skin was screaming out, burning intensely as the open air seared it.

He began to panic once more and sucked in breaths, his chest tightening once again as his binder seemed wont to embrace his ribs. He knew he should have bought the next size up--

“Oh, _Goddess_ , Felix!” Catherine’s panicked squawks sounded from behind him. “Wait there! I’ll get some bandages!”

Felix felt his heart pound as he clutched at his hand, feeling it begin to shake as adrenaline coursed its way throughout him. But, was his heart pounding from the pain, and panic, or… from attraction?

Waiting for Catherine, Felix poked his nose around the window once more, and spotted the small figure of that bewitching man - his vibrant hair signalling his presence from a mile off. Yet, Felix watched as he approached a storefront - the door of the popular fast food chain _McNeary’s_ \- and pulled out the signature red hat worn by its employees.

Felix almost forgot about the throbbing in his hand as he watched the man sidle through the doorway, gaudy red hat atop his enchanting auburn curls.

Well. He may have fucked up royally once, but at least he knew where he could find the man to try again.


	2. McNeary's - The Fast Food Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain has worked a dead-end job serving customers for seemingly forever. He takes to flirting with many of them simply to kill the time, but now, only one person is on his mind. Yet, perhaps thinking about them gives him the kind of freedom he needs.

The stench of fried junk food hit his nose as suddenly and unpleasantly as a collision upon entering the building. Sylvain would never get used to that scent; despite it clinging to his clothes and his hair each day, and surfacing in his every nightmare - which had been so frequent as of late - it would always make his nose wrinkle with distaste.

Greasy, oily, and meaty; it was almost too much to handle at this time in the morning. Sylvain’s shift started at 10am, and yet already the place was crawling with customers. Some sat eating belated breakfasts, others sipping delicately at steaming coffee cups, but most, it seemed, decided to stand aimlessly in the centre of the room, chatting away as though they weren’t causing an obstruction.

Sylvain brushed his hair out of his eyes as he crossed the room, winding between the customers who stood idly in his way, oblivious. He hated this job. Despised it. He did not enjoy letting his negativity show - always tried desperately to mask his frustration with beaming smiles and flirtatious jokes - but it didn’t seem like that would be possible today.

For today was already off to a bad start. Sylvain, for once in his life, had managed to arrive at the Galleria early. Yet, the idea of standing even one more minute in _McNeary’s_ than he needed to had sent shivers up his spine.

It was whilst standing around the foyer’s fountain mindlessly playing _Candy Crest Saga_ on his phone that Sylvain had had his breath taken away. Somebody walking past him had snatched his attention - somebody short, but with style. Slashed black skinny jeans, black leather boots, and a black denim jacket lined with white wool. A short and lithe stature, and a face like thunder, as if they’d just received the worst news of their life.

Of _course_ Sylvain was attracted to somebody so grumpy. Why could he never fall for the sweet and amicable girls who so frequently asked him on dates? Alas, he had been unable to take his eyes off of this grouch as he’d watched them pass by. They’d walked with such purpose - almost angrily striding straight towards--

_Thunderbrand._

_Oh,_ Sylvain had sighed internally. Was this a sword guy? _Oh no._ He’d had no choice though. If he wanted to snag somebody so cute, and so stylish, and who’d made his heart pound ceaselessly from their mere appearance, Sylvain would have to pay a price. Suffer a consequence, that maybe they’d be a sword nerd.

He had paid the price alright. But, not in the way he’d expected. Naturally, Sylvain had come across too strongly, his attempts at flirting being simply abrasive. But, was that really anything new? As he slipped himself behind _McNeary’s_ counter, absentmindedly calling out a “next!”, he gave what must have been his tenth sigh of the day, a bad mood curdling within him like a stormcloud in a clear sky.

At least he was consistent with one thing. _Failing._ It seemed to be the only thing he _could_ do.

_That’s not true, Syl,_ he thought to himself. _You can disappoint your father, too._

“Yeah, I’ll have a McDouble Brigid Breakfast Muffin, and a McEspresso too,” a whiny customer commanded of him.

_Why am I here?_ Sylvain hit the buttons of the order screen on autopilot. _I’m 26 and I still work at McNeary’s._

“Can I have the same, except with a McDouble Espresso instead?”

_I could be out following my dreams, and doing something with my life. But instead I’m happy to be stuck here?_

Sylvain had seemed intent on rebellion ever since his childhood, whether he’d intended it or not. For whatever reason, his parents had babied him over his older brother, and he’d hated it. He’d never asked for this - for his brother to resent him and pick on him - but it had become his life.

No wonder he’d moved out at the first opportunity he’d got, finding a small apartment in central Fódlan and snatching up the first job he’d laid eyes on. But, he’d simply not been able to stand to hear the words his father would utter one more time:

_“One of these days, you’ll settle down with a nice wife--”_

_No, I don’t think I will._ Sylvain did like girls, admittedly, but imagining himself years down the line with a husband instead had always brought a warmth to his chest that no woman ever had. Of course, never in a million years could he mention that.

It was just one more thing to disappoint his precious father. One of the hundreds of things.

Now, standing behind _McNeary’s_ counter with the sickening stench of fried food in his nostrils, Sylvain could not help but feel he’d acted rashly all those years ago. Taking the first job he could find, and being unable to quit for fear of financial instability. Sometimes he wished he _had_ followed his dreams.

Small locks of his red curls kept falling into his eyes, making Sylvain grit his teeth in annoyance. He tried to tuck it behind his ears, even attempting to make it sit beneath his work’s hat, but it continued to flop down insistently no matter what he tried. Had he any less self-control, he would have growled in irritation.

Yet another customer approached. “I’ll take a McCroissant to go. In a paper bag, not plastic. With a skinny McLatte. But, I don’t want it too hot, like how it was last time--” 

“ _Sothis!_ Give me a moment, would you?” Sylvain snapped, watching his customer’s eyes widen in shock and annoyance. They had no time to respond, however, before a shrill voice spoke over them:

“Hey!” Sylvain’s first customer, with a scarlet face. “This isn’t what I ordered!”

_Get lost, all of you,_ Sylvain had almost groaned. Instead, he spoke up, exasperated: “What’s up with it?”

“I ordered a Brigid _breakfast_ muffin! This is just a regular chocolate chip one! Are you deaf, or just incompetent!?"

Sylvain had taken too much of this over the years he’d been working here. Too much rudeness, and disrespect, and some downright disgusting manners. Sometimes, he took to wondering whether these sorts of customers saw retail employees as human, or merely emotionless robots tending to their every need.

In honesty, it was hard not to feel like a robot in this environment.

"What's going on?" _Oh, great._ Now Sylvain's boss was here - an uptight, snooty woman who thought she was _far_ more important than she actually was. She placed a hard hand upon Sylvain’s shoulder and shot him an irritated look.

“This kid got my order wrong! And his manners are shocking!”

“ _My_ manners?” Sylvain could not stop the words escaping, realising that the restaurant around him was growing quiet in the uproar. “Have you heard yourself?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” and his manager wheeled him around, whispering, “ _Sylvain!_ What in Fódlan has gotten into you!?”

_Enough of this shit._ “D’you know what?” Sylvain fought to keep his voice from cracking, his eyes growing hot. He tugged his stupid hat from his head, hair flopping into his stinging eyes once more, and threw it to the ground. “I’m out of here.”

His boss shouted after him, her voice somewhat panicked, but Sylvain cared not - he was leaving. Marching through the restaurant, the once-listless crowds now fixed their eyes upon him, their necks craning as he passed. Sylvain threw the doors open and allowed the air of the outside world to press in comfortingly all around him. It felt like a breath of fresh air against his face, making more tears rise as he tasted what seemed oddly like…

_… freedom._

Well, this air was not exactly _fresh_ \- he was still inside the Galleria’s grand foyer, with its large glass roof magnifying the sun outside and plastering a humid stickiness to his skin - but at least it wasn’t the greasiness of _McNeary’s._ Anything was better than that. And, hey, maybe he would never have to smell that stench again. He certainly wouldn’t be allowed his old job back after the scene he’d just caused.

Yet, despite his newfound freedom, as he headed out towards the fountain again, begging for his heart rate to slow, only one phrase was on his mind.

_“Settle down with a nice wife…”_

_Fuck you, Father._

Sylvain may have disgraced himself in front of Sword Guy Felix once, but perhaps he could try again. Could visit once more, and try to act interested in the… Varley great-big-sword or whatever it was Felix had enlightened him on.

There was one thing he needed to do first, though. Without the ugly red hat upon his head, Sylvain brushed his hair backwards, attempting everything to get it out of his eyes yet again. Before he did anything else, he needed a haircut.

Where better to go than to the _Mittelfrank Salon_? With its pretty ladies, and adorable Dorothea to fix him up right away, Sylvain could think of no better medicine. A haircut, a new life away from _McNeary’s,_ and a newfound will to ask the sexy sword guy on a date.

Sylvain Jose Gautier set off to _Mittelfrank_ at a jog. He bumped into somebody almost immediately - a pretty young woman in a platinum-silver business suit - but cared not. With a hasty shouted apology, he continued onwards.

_To a new life! And fuck you, Father!_


	3. Garreg Mach Vulneraries - The Pharmacist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercedes worked for years to get her nursing degree, studying at one of Fódlan’s most prestigious universities. Yet, now that she has it, she finds herself stuck with a dead-end job. Day in and day out, she must deal with the most irritating of customers, but thankfully her dearest Annette makes things more bearable.

Mercedes’ eyes glazed over as she stared at the shelves dead ahead of her. The lights overhead flickered ever-so-slightly, and standing under them for almost four whole hours had driven a dull, pounding sensation to the backs of her eyes.

When she got home after her shift, she would bake brownies; that much she had decided upon hours ago. Chocolate chunk brownies, perhaps with powdered sugar on top as an extra treat. She thought Annette might like that. If she baked them quickly enough, she could have them ready by the time her wife got home from her own job.

The thought was more entertaining than her current task.

Mercedes stood behind the pharmacy counter of the Galleria’s health and beauty store: _Garreg Mach Vulneraries_. While the front specialised in hair and make-up products, the back - where she stood now - was all medicinal.

Only one aisle was visible to her from the counter, and she stared aimlessly at the names of the boxes that sat upon its shelves as she had so many times before, their packages now burned into her memory. White. Clinical. All around her, the scent of disinfectants and medicines filled the air, their smells so etched into her nostrils that she scarcely noticed them anymore.

Mondays were always the most boring. She would be lucky to greet a handful of customers a day, but today - so far - she’d had none.

She could not even sit. Could not listen to music, nor use her phone; she was forbidden to do anything even remotely entertaining. With nobody else working shifts to assist her - nobody else to talk to - Mercedes found she could only rearrange the stock that sat behind her counter so many times before the task grew tedious. Thus, after an hour of stacking products alphabetically, Mercedes had taken to simply staring out at the shop before her, letting her mind wander.

Yet, as somebody rounded the corner, Mercedes’ heart gave a little flutter. While occasionally customers would merely browse, sometimes they would talk to her. And, on days such as today, she could hope for nothing more.

Unfortunately for her, though, she noticed immediately that this customer looked positively surly. His hair glinted like a midnight sky beneath the cold white lights, tied up into a messy bun, but the face beneath it was sharp and sour. Scowling golden eyes raked the shelves before her, a bandaged hand reaching out to grab at boxes before throwing them back into place.

With a heaving sigh - one that seemed to carry all the weight of the world within it - the young man turned to face Mercedes, and folded his arms as he addressed her.

“What’s best for an open wound?” His voice was a drawl, one eyebrow raised.

 _Another_. Mercedes had come across far too many foul-tempered customers like this in her life. Each encounter with one would turn one of her rose-gold hairs grey. Was it so hard to simply smile?

She gave a positive beam to the man as if to prove it wasn’t a difficult task. “Well, that would depend on the wound!” she said cheerily.

The man’s jaw hardened visibly. He raised his bandaged hand up to her. It told Mercedes nothing. It did, however, draw her attention to a small badge pinned to his shirt. She peered at it, reading:

_Hello! My name is:_

_Felix!_

She pressed her lips together. The badge’s cheery tone could not have contrasted more fiercely with the man’s demeanor. He wore a black leather apron, smeared with all sorts of stains, over a dark blue polo shirt. A small golden shape was stitched upon one side of his collar, displaying a symbol: a sword within a circle.

 _Thunderbrand_.

That small, novelty blacksmithery had always confused Mercedes. In today’s age, she saw no need for a store that made and sold medieval weapons, but it seemed to fill a small, yet surprisingly popular, niche.

Mercedes pulled her attention back to the man’s hand. A jagged line of blood could be seen blossoming through the bandages. “A cut, perhaps? Did you damage it at work?” Mercedes asked, mind already beginning to whir with solutions.

Felix bristled. “How do _you_ know where I work?”

“The _Thunderbrand_ symbol is on your collar,” she pointed out, trying to keep her tone light.

The man was displeased. “Yes. It’s a cut.”

“How deep? Just a surface wound, or something more?”

A positive ‘ _ugh_ ’ left his throat. “What’s with all the questions? Can you get me something for it or not?”

 _Not with that attitude,_ she wanted so desperately to say. “It’s just so I can get you the best solution!” she responded instead with a chipper smile.

Felix considered her answer with drawn eyebrows. “It’s… a bit deeper.”

Never a good sign. “The best treatment for a deep cut is to visit a hospital.” Mercedes nodded at him. “Stitches are often needed, and--”

“ _No,_ ” Felix snapped. “I’m not going to a hospital! What do you take me for?”

 _A fool?_ Mercedes’ expression grew concerned. “Your palm has important tendons - if your wound is too deep, they could be damaged--”

“I don’t need a hospital. Just some ointment, or something.”

How could people be so dense? It took everything in Mercedes’ power not to groan aloud. Instead, she composed herself - donning her concerned smile - and pressed on. “Sir, I trained at medical school for a good few years. Deep cuts can risk serious infection if not treated professionally.”

The look that was shot back at her was full of loathing. Yet his storm-cloud of an expression lifted momentarily as he raised an eyebrow. “You think it could be that bad?”

Without seeing it, she could not know. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. “You’re always better seeking professional attention. Especially if you work with scrap metal - dirty, dusty objects can cause tetanus.”

The man paled slightly, but kept his expression stern. He nodded. It seemed she’d scared some sense into him. “Okay. Uh, thanks.” And his eyes shifted a little awkwardly beneath his scowl. “Do you sell bandages?”

Mercedes gave a slight giggle. She turned around and headed towards one shelf. “Here,” she said, handing him a box. “These are medicated dressings. Only use them after you speak with a doctor!”

And she tapped his order into the cash register. Felix paid for his dressings, handling the coins clumsily with his bandaged hand, and pocketed the box. He gave a curt nod of thanks, and was gone.

Just like that, Mercedes was alone again. The buzz in her heart that so often arose as she was helping customers faded away to be replaced with a dull sort of ache.

Her own words rang in her head as the silence washed over her.

_“… after you speak with a doctor…”_

Why had she given up on that dream? It was no lie that she’d trained for years in one of the most prestigious medical schools in all of Fódlan, but for what? When she’d originally planned out her life, she’d wanted to help people. To cure people. To make them better, and bring smiles to faces.

Yet, here she was, working in a dingy mall, staring at shelves every day. It was hard not to feel worthless, sometimes--

“Mercie, Mercie!”

That voice snatched her from the darkness at once. Mercedes saw a familiar figure round the aisle, and Annette came bounding into view.

Beautiful, wonderful Annette. Her gingery curls bounced with her movements as she skipped up to the counter, glinting beneath the light like a halo.

“Annie,” Mercedes said, smiling at once.

The two women both leaned over the counter and stole a kiss from one another's lips. It was strictly against her work code, but Mercedes couldn’t care less anymore. She loved her wife.

“How’s work been?” An adoring smile cradled Mercedes’ lips as she looked into Annette’s sky-blue eyes.

“It’s great!” Annette chirped in return. “Oh, a little boy cried when he found he could make a hippo!”

The _Construct-a-Cuddle Workshop_ was every child’s dream store. To dive into a shop filled with bright colours and adorable decorations, grabbing a stuffed animal to customise in any way possible… Mercedes had admittedly constructed herself many a cuddle over the years. Her first had been a fluffy bunny with orange fur modelled specifically after Annette. Of course, Annette had made one back: a puppy whose fur was a shade of champagne. She’d lovingly named it “Mercie 2.0”.

“But, how are _you?_ ” Annette asked, leaning both arms upon the counter.

Mercedes looked at the uniform her wife wore. The yellow of _Construct-a-Cuddle’s_ shirt was garish when mixed with the tight orange trousers, but it made for a cute look. Occasionally for work, Annette would tie her hair up into the two twin loops she used to in her childhood. Mixed with the bright colours of her garb, it made her look youthful - touched by the Goddess - and reminded Mercedes of when they’d met; back in Fhirdiad Royal Summer School, Mercedes had never anticipated to fall in love with the young spritely girl she’d met there. But, as they’d reconnected after spending years apart in different universities, and Annette had grown into the fascinating young woman she was today, Mercedes had become infatuated.

“I’m much better for seeing you,” she responded at last.

She was met with excitable giggles - ones that sounded from the mouth of Saint Cethleann herself.

“I’ve only had one customer today. And he was horrible,” Mercedes admitted. She was never meant to talk ill of customers, but she could not help herself.

“Hmm...” Annette placed one finger on her chin in thought. “Let me guess. Middle-aged. Socks and sandals. Asked to speak to the manager. Am I right!?”

Mercedes laughed. “No, actually! But I’ve had plenty of those before. This man worked at _Thunderbrand--_ ”

“Ohh, with the blue hair and grumpy face?”

“You know him?” Mercedes blinked at her in confusion.

“No, not exactly,” Annette said. “But he served me once when I went in there for our new bread knife.”

“You went to the sword shop for a bread knife…?” Sometimes Mercedes pitied her wife.

“Yeah, he was confused about that as well… But then he was just rude about it.” She shrugged.

Mercedes laughed, and a silence fell for a few seconds before she remembered something. “Oh, I know you finish late tonight. I’ll have a surprise waiting for you at home.”

The raised eyebrows and quick little smirk Annette gave in response made Mercedes realise her statement had sounded a little more _indecent_ than anticipated.

“A-Annie! Don’t be crude! It’s nothing like--!” But she felt her cheeks begin to blush. “Oh, Annie, you can be so--!”

Her wife raised her hands in a surrender. “Hey, I wouldn’t complain if--”

“ _Annette!_ ” Mercedes hissed through giggles. “I’m at _work!_ ”

“Yeah, and I should be getting back to mine,” Annette then said, wearing a pout. “Oh, I _wish_ you could work with me, it would be so much more fun! I’m sure you could get a job there - you’re great with kids!”

A sad little smile fell upon Mercedes’ face. “Yes, and I also have a great degree I should put to use…”

Annette reached a hand over the counter, slipping warm fingers over Mercedes’ own. “Still having regrets…?”

“Not regrets,” Mercedes shrugged, squeezing her love’s fingers reassuringly. “Just doubts. But, we can talk about that later.”

“Yes, when you show me my surprise.” The red-head winked.

Mercedes gave a giggle and waved as Annette took her leave.

Sighing, she realised that she could not deny her doubts about her job. Well, about her life in general at the moment. She was 28 now, yet still she felt unaccomplished. She’d anticipated a life full of action - helping the injured and working the magic of medicine, as Saint Cethleann had directed her to in a dream. But that life had yet to come.

Those things were best thought about some other time, anyway. For now, Mercedes was earning good money, and she got to see Annette every day on her break. She had been putting off finding a new job for months - perhaps years. Maybe soon she would finally begin looking for something more - something more to life than staring at the backs of shelves.

Or, then again, maybe she would not.

Another customer approached her now, with fantastic chocolate-coloured ringlets cascading across her shoulders, and an empty plastic spray-bottle in one hand.

“Hi, dear,” she said, sounding a little out of breath. The word sounded funny crossing her lips, considering she looked several years younger than Mercedes herself.

Mercedes approached the cash register once more, and let all doubts of her job leave her mind. They were best thought about another day.


	4. Fhirdiad & Enbarr - The CEO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard has always been cool, calm, and collected: level-headed, with a knack for business. She fits the role of CEO perfectly. But, it was never intended to be hers.

_Watch it,_ Edelgard had wanted to hiss as her shoulder took the weight of the red-haired man. 

Instead, she sighed into the mobile phone at her ear. “We’ll talk about it later. Yes, I know it’s important - I _know_ that--”

The voice jabbering at her from the other end grated on her nerves - set her teeth to grinding. The man was always worried, fretting over her each decision as though he had any right to. He questioned her every move, she knew, but that was not his place.

At all.

She’d had enough. She didn’t like to do this, but she had no other choice but to adopt her hard, affronted manager-voice as she asked: “Are you questioning my business model?”

The voice began to backpedal at once. “N-no, Ms. von Hresvelg! Never--!”

“Good. Then I suppose you had better leave me alone, and make yourself useful.” She ended the phone call.

Another sigh left her mouth, and Edelgard had to stop in her tracks to put her phone away once more. _Now, where am I?_

She stood in the centre of the walkway of the Galleria’s foyer, with shoppers bustling all around her. Some people wore suits, like her, although she had to admit she didn't think any of them looked quite as nice.

Yes, she had to complement herself on her fashion sense today. A platinum-white pantsuit matched her hair almost perfectly, while the lilac shirt beneath it brought out the pale hue of her eyes in a striking way. The ribbons of the same colour that kept her hair out of her face completed the look; at least, that was what Hubert had said, when she’d stopped by his store for a visit earlier in the morning. 

Now was not the time to dwell on fashion, though. Edelgard had somebody to visit. She composed herself, taking a few breaths, before she began to head in the direction of the Galleria’s largest bookstore.

Why had Lambert decided upon merging the first _Fhirdiad & Enbarr _\- his pride and joy - with a bookstore? Edelgard knew not, and she would never know the answer; after Lambert’s death a few years back, his family had been devastated. Edelgard had not been his step-daughter for long, and admittedly had hardly understood what was happening, but the utter darkness and despair it had put her mother through had been enough to make Edelgard mourn.

His company - _Fhirdiad & Enbarr, _ a successful coffeehouse chain - had been handed over to his heir. Except, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Edelgard’s dear step-brother, had been hit the worst by his death. The young woman had always taken pride in her own steel resolve, but the same could not be said for Dimitri; she had never truly understood what was meant by ‘falling into a depression’ - she had always brushed herself off after her own tragedies - but witnessing her brother after Lambert’s death had opened her eyes.

While Dimitri’s hair used to be full, voluminous, and bright blonde, it had turned limp. He’d let it grow to his shoulders with the consistency of straw before Edelgard had finally intervened. After months of solitude, he had allowed Edelgard to tend to him. To help him get back on his feet, and help him to tie his hair back into something a little less ragged.

She stopped in her tracks, finding herself outside the doors of _Fhirdiad & Enbarr _ where it sat attached to the bookstore. This coffeehouse had been not only one of the first stores to open in the Galleria, but was also the first _F &E _store Lambert himself had opened. Its success was what had allowed for him to expand the company, and, with it being attached a decade back to _Lonato’s_ \- a huge and independent bookstore - it had flourished. It was a special place, for the Blaiddyd family and the von Hresvelgs.

Edelgard stepped in. To her right the bookstore spanned, its shelves innumerous and colourful and organised by genre. Yet, to her left she walked. Small tables and sofas sat closest to the large window, but further into the shop, she saw what she was here for.

“Not too busy today?” Edelgard asked as she approached the cash register.

Dimitri looked up from behind the counter, pale eyes brightening slightly upon seeing her. The uniform he wore - a crisp black shirt beneath a blue apron - would never not look out of place upon him. Born into a wealthy family, Dimitri should be wearing a suit like Edelgard, but he did not. “Oh, good morning, El,” he said almost cheerily.

The woman gestured to the shop around her, to where only a few customers sat at the tables working on laptops or eating small meals. “Usually there are a few more people. Business _is_ good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t worry about Mondays too much,” Dimitri shrugged. “The main rush of them arrive first thing, and all order to-go.”

Edelgard nodded with a smile. “Of course.” Yet, the smile felt bitter. She had to shake this guilt. She _had_ to. How could she expect to be a successful business-owner if she couldn’t even accept her role as--?

“You aren’t having second thoughts about it again, are you?” Dimitri could read his sister like a book.

Edelgard opened her mouth, preparing her denial, but pressed her lips together before the words came out. “Yes,” she admitted. _Oh,_ how she hated to admit it, but she could not lie to Dimitri. He had been through enough already.

His eyes smiled, those irises like azure pools swimming with understanding. “El, I keep telling you. I’m fine here.”

“As a barista? As a cashier who takes orders and makes coffee?” She could not help herself - she shook her head. “You’re destined for more than this!”

“I’m perfectly happy as I am.” Dimitri’s words were reassuring, but they merely made anxiety flare in Edelgard’s stomach.

“Why, Dimitri? Lambert made _you_ the CEO. Why did you hand that title over to me?”

The look that was shot back at her - huge blue puppy eyes pleading with her to understand - took Edelgard back to those many years ago. She’d been sitting across the dining room table from her brother, the seat beside them empty where Lambert once would have been. Alas, the two had been alone, and Dimitri had searched his sister’s eyes of lilac.

“I cannot do this. I cannot be the man my father was.”

Edelgard had not understood at first. She’d peered at Dimitri through the lifeless hair that hung across his face. “You’re a great man in your own right--” she’d made to say, but had been cut off by a soft:

“No.” And Dimitri had taken a deep, rattling breath - so hollow in his chest he could have been on death’s door just as his father had been. “The CEO position. I cannot.”

She’d blinked at him. “Of course you can.”

Another “no”. Yet, despite Dimitri’s pain, and his anguish, and his voice being raw from his howling sobs each night, he smiled. It was so feeble, the corners of his lips merely quirking at her. “I want you to take the role.”

Edelgard had experienced so many emotions at once. Delight, pride, bewilderment; she’d worked all her life to become someone - to put her skills to use - and now she had an opportunity.

But then had come the confusion. The hesitation, and fear, and the guilt seeping through it all like damp spreading through old, rotting wood.

_It is not my job to take._

“I _need_ you to, El,” Dimitri had reached out across the table, and had taken her hands in his own shaking grasp. Even from his hands alone it was clear he had lost weight - his every tendon threatened to burst from beneath his pallid skin - but his grip was frighteningly strong. Desperate. “You need to take over, for I cannot. _Please.”_

“What will you do instead?” she’d asked.

And Dimitri had let out such a contented sigh. “What I suppose I’ve always wanted to do.”

A humble job; a barista. A life away from stress, and responsibility. Something he’d needed, after the intensity of his mental break.

Edelgard looked into her brother’s face now, seeing that same pleading expression behind his eyes. But, those eyes were brighter now, and his smile came so much easier. He was not the same dishevelled, mourning young man that he had been back then. “Aren’t you doing better now?” Edelgard asked him. “Don’t you think you’d be fit to--?”

“El, the CEO is _your_ job.” When he spoke, he smiled, and his voice was determined. “You were born for this. I was not.”

“But, you literally _were_ born for this. You were the rightful predecessor, and your father gave it to _you.”_

“And, as the rightful predecessor, I handed it to you.”

Edelgard let out a sigh. There was no reasoning with him on this matter - she’d tried before, to no avail.

“Besides…” and his voice grew quiet, “... in no way am I doing better.”

Instinctually, Edelgard stretched her hand over the counter to hold Dimitri’s fingers. They were so much larger, yet so much softer; they had always been that way. In their childhood playing games, Edelgard had always been rougher - always been the victor. She could handle the pain of falling and skinning her knees, but Dimitri would weep if even so much as his hair was pulled.

That was the exact argument Dimitri had used upon handing the title of CEO over to her.

“You’re just… better. At everything - at this life. You know business, and you always have. You used to bring economics into our games of _King of the Hill_ when we were _ten,_ El…”

At least his hands were not as skinny now as they had been back then. Yet, it still pained her to hear he wasn’t content.

“Is that all you came here for?” he asked good-naturedly, breaking the silence. “To try to get me to take your job away?”

Edelgard let a breath of a laugh escape her nostrils. “I suppose it was. And to check on you, of course.”

He nodded. “I’m fine. I like this job. It’s simple, and fun, and I can talk to the customers. Some of them knew Father, you know? I like it.”

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed. She gave a wicked smirk, and gestured to the baked goods that sat behind the glass cabinets next to Dimitri. “And I know you like the baker from Duscur who makes all of these cakes.”

Her brother’s pale skin flushed a shade of pink at once. “Ex-Excuse me?” he blustered. “What? No! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The young woman gave a laugh. “Don’t worry, Dima. Your secret’s safe with me.” Dimitri turned away, and she watched him. Despite his claims that he was fine here, he still wasn’t well. Her heart ached for him; she wished she could do more, to help him grieve, and repair his life. “Well, you know where I am, if you need me,” she told him, as she had done a hundred times before.

Dimitri faced her again, cheeks still flushed. But his smile in return was gentle. “Of course. And the same goes for you. Now, can I get you a coffee, before you head back to the office?”


	5. Mittelfrank Salon - The Hairdresser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea is a busy woman with a lot on her plate. Between juggling her job as a hairdresser and trying to make it as a singer, she finds one thing - one woman - anchoring her throughout it all...

“Can we make this quick, Sylvain dear?” Dorothea hollered across the salon as she burst through the doorway, new spray-bottle in hand. “I have somewhere to be at midday!”

“Relax,” Sylvain drawled back, turning in his chair and giving her a wink. “I’m only asking for a tidy-up!”

“Yes,” Dorothea muttered as she approached, “you’re in dire need of one.” And she stood behind the red-head, grasping the back of his chair and swinging him around so he faced the mirror.

She would never quite understand how handsome he was. She had thought as much upon first meeting him, when he’d somehow managed to flirt with her while she’d ordered a large fries and vanilla milkshake from  _ McNeary’s _ all those years ago.

“Haha, a  _ vanilla _ milkshake?” he’d asked, tapping the order into the monitor.

It had made Dorothea’s brow furrow. “... Yes?” she’d replied.

“Huh, I would’ve pinned you as the more  _ adventurous _ type.” And  _ Sylvain, _ as his name tag had read, had given her a wink so foolishly handsome it had set her stomach alight.

He’d been so out of line - so utterly and ridiculously inappropriate to say such a thing - that Dorothea had nearly shouted. But something behind his golden eyes was sad, and bored, and ever-so devilishly cute. And she’d had to laugh instead.

He had quick wit, if not a terrible sense of timing. He was irresistible despite his indecency. Dorothea had liked it. Thus, she’d averted her path each day to grab a coffee not from  _ Fhirdiad & Enbarr, _ but from  _ McNeary’s _ instead. The taste was dreadful - watery bean juice as opposed to the delicious creamy goodness of the coffee house - but Dorothea had found it worth it to receive a wink from Sylvain Gautier.

And now, a few years later, the two were friends. Sylvain had asked once whether Dorothea would like to be anything more - evidently confused after Dorothea had asked for his number - but Dorothea had declined. She knew that Sylvain Gautier was not yet ready to be in a committed relationship - particularly not with her - but to his credit, he had not uttered a single word more on the subject; he had respected her. Dorothea and Sylvain would have cute pyjama parties watching terrible romcoms, would visit each other nearly every day at work, and would message each other unfunny pictures whilst howling with laughter at 3am. But nothing more. And they were both content with that.

She could not deny that his chiselled, symmetrical face and gorgeous red hair falling lazily over his striking golden eyes were enough to make anybody swoon. Sylvain knew that too. He tilted his jaw, allowing the light to cast a sharp shadow across his neck. He pursed his lips in an  _ ‘ooh’ _ upon seeing it.

But not Dorothea. Perhaps, were it not for that one beautiful stranger at her group workout sessions, she would allow herself to be attracted to him…

“Enough posing!” Dorothea rolled her eyes, snapping herself from her daydream. She thrust her new spray-bottle at him. “Be a doll and hold this for a second, would you? I’m just gonna grab my scissors.”

Luckily, Dorothea was skilled enough; she managed to neaten Sylvain’s hair with impressive speed. Soon, little red curls littered the floor by her feet, and she stepped back to admire her handiwork; his windswept waves could now be brushed aside to frame his angular face handsomely, no longer falling into his face in thick locks to obscure those devilish eyes.

She cocked her head. Now that she thought about it, those eyes had lost some of their gall. “What’s up, Sylvain?” she asked. “You’ve been quiet. It’s frightening.”

He laughed. “I have?”

“Yes, and you’ve not made a single distasteful joke. Is something on your mind?”

“I could be on  _ your _ mind, if you’d let me,” he cooed.

_ There it is.  _ “Just because I said you hadn’t made one doesn’t mean you have to prove me wrong!” She flicked him on the back of his head, but even his giggles in the aftermath were not the same. They seemed hollow, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Dorothea checked the clock upon the wall; she had fifteen minutes to kill before needing to set out to her workout session. The salon was quiet, and Dorothea grabbed the chair next to Sylvain’s and pulled it towards him. She perched upon it, leant forwards, and spoke softly.

“Is something bothering you?”

The golden eyes flashed: Sylvain did not often speak about his feelings. He frequently joked about things - how sad he was that a girl rejected him, and how frightened he was of his boss - but sincere emotions were not easily retrieved. For a moment, the young man made to brush her off, giving a shrug and a wave of one large, broad hand, but it only took one glare from Dorothea’s emerald eyes to make him sigh and discard his masquerade.

“I, uh…” And he looked down, bringing his hands to his lap where he played with his fingers. “I just quit my job.”

Dorothea raised her eyebrows instinctually. “You what!?” She knew how unstable his life was; after turning down his father’s offer of financial aid, Sylvain was struggling to make ends meet.  _ McNeary’s _ paid its workers peanuts, and apartments in the city centre were expensive… Dorothea knew that as well as any.

“You’ll never make it as a singer in Garreg Mach!” she had been told as a child, in the cruel and uncomfortable care home she’d grown up in. Putting on small singing shows for the rest of the orphans there had made Dorothea sure of her dream job, but the stern and hard-boiled care workers had deemed it ‘unrealistic’, and had scared her into dropping the idea.

Dorothea had been lucky enough to take over the  _ Mittelfrank Salon _ once the previous owner had rescinded ownership, but she was not passionate about it. Not really. Hair and beauty had seemed a good substitute for singing, and made great money, but it was not where her heart lay.

“Why did you quit?” she asked Sylvain.

He shrugged in response. “I never wanted to do it. And I got sick of it.” That struck a chord with Dorothea - made her chest grow tight. “I want to do something I’m  _ passionate _ about, Doro. Not just something that’ll get me money.”

All of a sudden, the young songstress’ eyes had grown hot. She found herself blinking hard, willing the tears away.  _ Damn, _ she thought to herself.  _ That’s something I should have done a long time ago. _

“Either way, they treated me like shit there!” Sylvain’s voice smiled as he quipped, but then took on a tone of urgency. “Woah, hey, are you okay!?”

He leapt from his chair, grasping onto Dorothea’s hands with his own and kneeling before her; his movements made his handsome red curls fall across his forehead, but his gentle golden eyes were in full view. Her haircut had done the trick. It made Dorothea smile, and give a little laugh. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, her voice sounding choked with tears. “Agh, it’s just… you reminded me of myself for a little while there.”

“Oh no, that’s never a good sign. Who’d want to be like me?”

He made Dorothea laugh once more. “I never wanted to cut hair for a living,” she said. “I want to sing, and I always have done.”

Sylvain squeezed her hands. “So, you should! You have a beautiful voice, and you’re a natural performer--!”

“I know, I know,” she dismissed him good-naturedly. “I don’t need your spiel again - I’ve heard it a thousand times!”

“And you’ll hear it again--!”

_ “Sothis, _ no. Spare me.” She laughed once more, and Sylvain did too. He looked up into her eyes with earnest, in the same way he always did when she sang to him: almost admiringly. “Now, get up, dear. You look like you’re proposing to me, how embarrassing. Besides, I need to go, my workout session starts soon.”

As Sylvain stood up, brushing his own red hair clippings from his knees, Dorothea did too. “Hey, Doro,” Sylvain said, heading across the room to grab Dorothea her bag and jacket. When he reached her again, he tucked one of her brunette curls back behind her ear. “If I’m gonna follow my dreams, you should follow yours.”

She smiled at him. “And what might your dreams be?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said a little bashfully. “But, whatever they are, I’ll have your back. You’ll be the greatest singer in Fódlan, not just Garreg Mach.”

Dorothea took her bag and jacket from Sylvain’s handsome broad hands. “Thank you, Syl.” Her voice was light, and her heart fluttered. He was just such a sweetie, and the best friend she could ask for. “And I’ll have your back too. Call me tonight, and we can talk about it.”

“You got it.” He winked at her.

She reached up on her tiptoes, and gave his cheek a little kiss. It left a cute pink mark, from where her  _ Adrestia Rouge #53 _ lipstick stained his skin. She knew he wouldn’t mind. She did not have time to check, however, before she had turned, running through the shop and out of the door.

* * *

Her mind was not focussed at all throughout the workout session. She arrived at  _ The Training Grounds _ slightly late, and a little out of breath, changing into her exercise gear in a minute flat before speeding to the room.

It was mostly full by the time she arrived, but she still managed to squeeze into a spot amongst the crowd, just where she wanted. Dorothea recognised some regulars; the pretty young lady with platinum-blonde hair and lilac eyes, and the older woman with a short brown bob and very provocative dress sense. Dorothea smiled at them both as she took her place upon the yoga mats, facing the front of the room where Caspar - the short young trainer - stood.

“Good to see you all! Ready to get sweaty?” he asked. He received some laughs in response, with affirmations of varying enthusiasm. “Let’s do it, then!”

The music began, and Caspar instructed his class on which moves to use first. Dorothea truly did not care though, for  _ she _ was here.

The woman she always hoped would be here. The woman she liked.

She stood in front of Dorothea, wearing her sports bra and cycling shorts. Visible across her dark olive skin were her tattoos - the gorgeous purple markings that had caught Dorothea’s eye the first time she’d seen them. A beautiful, intricate braid was weaved into her thick magenta hair in such a beautiful style Dorothea didn’t think herself capable of replicating it.

Everything about her was beautiful; her hair, her face, her accent… Dorothea had suspicions the young woman was from Brigid, but had never worked up enough courage to ask. Instead, she would watch from afar as the woman would fly through the workout sessions with ease, not even seeming to break a sweat. Caspar often complemented her on that, and Dorothea would too, if she weren’t so entranced…

She always caught herself staring downwards when standing behind this woman. Her hourglass figure was beautiful, and Dorothea always had to admire her… glute muscles, so to speak…

_ No! _ Dorothea fixed her eyes upwards again, to where Caspar instructed the class.  _ No staring. Bad. _

* * *

By the end of the thirty-minute session, Dorothea was a mess: a panting, sweaty, over-exerted mess. Once Caspar had finished their cool-down, and thanked the class for coming, Dorothea let herself flop to the floor to catch her breath.

“Oh, my,” an unfamiliar voice said from over her. “Are you alright?”

And when Dorothea’s eyes focussed, she saw none other than the gorgeous tattooed woman, standing above her and peering down. “Oh!” she yelped, clambering upwards to stand once more. “I-I’m fine, thank you!”

_ Crap! _ She wasn’t ready to talk to this woman yet! She’d had no time to mentally prepare, or figure out what to say. And  _ Sothis, _ this woman was even prettier up close, with small and slight features beneath huge brown eyes. They were almond-shaped and so enticingly dark, like an abyss waiting to swallow Dorothea up. She would not attempt to escape their captivating gaze.

Dorothea almost jumped when she spoke up again in her sweet, melodic voice. “Yes? You were looking in pain.” And she cocked her head, beautiful braid falling endearingly over her shoulder. Dorothea’s chest grew tight in her attraction.

“Oh, I… yes, I was in pain. I’m… not very fit!” She gave an anxious laugh.

“I see...” But her eyebrows were not judgmental, simply concerned. It sent butterflies shooting through Dorothea’s stomach, to see her slim, attractive eyebrows furrowed in such a way. “Are you needing a drink? You can borrow my water, if you are wanting…”

“Aw, thank you, but I have some in my locker!” Dorothea replied, heart fluttering. “Sorry, though, I don’t think I ever asked for your name! I’m Dorothea,” she then added, skilfully.

“My name is being… No, um… My name is Petra,” the other woman replied, pressing her pretty pink lips together tightly.

_ Petra… Yes. _ That was a beautiful name, for a beautiful woman. “Petra what?” Dorothea asked. “If I get your surname, I could add you as a friend on SpellBook!”  _ Nice, Doro! You’re so smooth-- _

“Oh, I… I am sorry,” Petra’s eyes suddenly became awkward, and she stepped a few paces backwards. “Dorothea, I… am being late for something. Forgive me.”

Dorothea could not even say another word before she was left alone, Petra skipping hurriedly from the room on her muscular long legs. The aspiring songstress blinked once, and twice, and felt dismay overcome her as slowly and insidiously as a wave, engulfing her in cold, lonely waters.

What had she done wrong? Was asking for Petra’s surname a step too far...?


	6. The Training Grounds - The Fitness Instructor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar lives a lively existence as a fitness instructor, but loves just as much when Linhardt - the love of his life - takes the day a little slower.

“Hoo!” Caspar gave a stretch, watching as his fitness class packed up their belongings. The young man turned, satisfied, and grabbed his water bottle, taking a long swig of the icy-cold substance that chilled his throat.

This was just what he needed, a cool-down before his next class started. Letting himself relax – his mind wandering – in the twenty minute break before he’d need to get pumped up again was always a welcome change to his action-packed schedule.

Goddess, how he loved his job. Who wouldn’t want to do exercise all day, and get paid for it at the same time?

As he turned around again, he waved goodbyes to some of the class members before a familiar figure loped over to him. His heart would always sing upon seeing that figure.

“I don’t know how you can be _bothered_ with all of this, _”_ Linhardt sighed, placing his hands deep in the pockets of his cozy harem pants. Loose emerald hair fell over his shoulders down to his ribs, making Caspar smile stupidly.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he replied, wrapping an arm around Linhardt’s skinny shoulders. He had to reach up slightly on his tiptoes to get there, but he knew that was something Linhardt found endearing.

“Thought I’d come to meet you,” the man replied, leaning down to place a kiss upon Caspar’s forehead. He pulled his face away immediately. “Oh, _Sothis,_ Caspar, you’re all sweaty,” he whined.

“You just saw the workout I was doing!” Caspar chirped, hopping over to where he’d left his water bottle.

Linhardt helped him gather his stuff, grabbing his sports jacket and draping it over Caspar’s shoulders. “I’m taking you out for lunch,” he said; it was not a question, but one of the last-minute plans Linhardt so often crafted and sprung upon Caspar without warning.

“Oh, really?” Caspar chirped in return. “Well, I’ve only got twenty minutes, so you’d better make it quick!”

“It’ll be quick,” Linhardt simply responded. Ever calm, ever mysterious.

Caspar nudged him in the arm. “Is it gonna be romantic?”

Linhardt rolled his eyes. “If you’re lucky."

And the two shared a giggle as they followed Caspar’s class out of the room. They worked their way through the corridors of _the Training Grounds_ – the brand new fitness club that had opened a few months back. Excitedly, Caspar had applied for a job as soon as he’d seen one listed, and had been offered an interview on the spot. The place still smelled of new carpets, which Caspar supposed was better than the alternative – smelling of sweat.

“Remember the old gym that used to be in this building?” Caspar asked as the two of them reached the door.

“I remember the ghastly scent of it,” Linhardt replied. He squinted slightly as they exited the club, assaulted by the bright light of the Galleria outside. It was almost clinical – as though the burning lights of an operating theatre were shining down on the patients inside. “I hate this glass roof.”

Caspar felt the heat beat down upon him at once. “It makes me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. Like someone’s trying to fry me.” And he wafted his shirt collar, trying to direct a breeze against his sweating chest.

“Maybe if you didn’t exercise all day you wouldn’t be so hot.”

And Caspar flexed a bicep, winking at Linhardt. “Nothing could stop me from being _this_ hot!”

“Shut up.” Linhardt smiled. He began to direct them down the walkway, where they joined the throngs of shoppers choking the corridors; the Galleria always became busy around Caspar’s lunch break.

“Where’re you taking me?” he asked.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Oh.” But a thought struck Caspar – one that made his heart skip a beat. His eyes became wide as the one shop of the Galleria he’d been desperate to visit met his eyes at the bottom of the walkway. “Oh, Lin, you’re not…”

An exasperated sigh met his ears in response. “I’m not _what?”_

“Are you taking me…?” As they continued to walk closer, the name of the shop became visible.

_Garland Moon_

_Wedding Cakes and Catering_

Caspar grinned wide. “Are you taking me to _Garland Moon!?”_ he exclaimed, bouncing as he walked. “Are we testing wedding cakes for lunch!?”

“Wedding cakes?” Linhardt looked up at the shop in question with blank, heavy-lidded eyes. Yet he showed no sign of stopping – instead, he walked until they had passed Garland Moon, continuing down their path. He giggled. “No, sorry.”

Caspar pouted, the fire of excitement in his chest dwindling – dying. He felt almost crestfallen. “You’re not a great fiancé, you know.”

Linhardt chuckled. “Speak for yourself. Have _you_ made any wedding plans yet?” he asked his love with a smile. “You proposed. That’s all well and good, but did you expect the wedding to just _mystically_ fall into place?”

Caspar’s brow furrowed.

“Is the venue just going to call us up and volunteer? Will the menu write itself?” He was smiling as he spoke, and slipped a hand around Caspar’s waist. “I suppose our acquaintances will just decide amongst themselves whether they’ll be invited…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I need to plan too...” he pouted. “Man, I hate when you’re right.”

“You hate your entire existence?”

“Hey!” Caspar laughed, sticking out a leg as they walked so as to trip Linhardt over. The man gave a deft leap out of the way, more agile than anticipated. “You’re not right _all_ of the time!”

“I am now, when I tell you you’re cute when you’re angry.”

Caspar blushed.

“Besides, we’re here now anyway.”

They stopped walking at Linhardt’s words, and Caspar looked around. The wedding cake shop was in the distance, with the only other storefronts around reading _Construct-a-Cuddle, Crest Crafts,_ and _McNeary’s—_

Caspar gasped. “Ew!” he exclaimed. “Linhardt, no!”

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not taking me to freaking _McNeary’s_ for my lunch, are you!? You think I want _fast food_ —!?”

“Idiot. You’re facing the wrong way.”

Linhardt’s hands grasped Caspar’s shoulders and spun him around, leaving him face-to-face with the back of another customer. He was in a queue. Poking his head around the taller woman’s shoulder, a stall met his eyes. It was small and cute: a wooden countertop with a little menu hung on the wall behind it, the name on top written in swirling pink cursive:

_Galleria’s Ices_

The ‘i’ was dotted with a cherry.

“Ice cream…?” Caspar muttered, his face lighting up with a grin.

“Ice cream,” Linhardt confirmed.

“You’re getting me ice cream for lunch!?” he asked excitedly. After all of his workouts, and the few sessions that would come afterwards, he felt in need of a sugar rush.

“Hey there,” said the girl behind the counter as the customer in front of them walked away. Beneath a sheet of white hair, looking as pristine as a blanket of fresh snow, the clerk looked a little tired – as if her startling pink eyes were struggling to stay open. She seemed friendly all the same. “Welcome to Galleria’s Ices. What can I get you?”

“This stall’s new, right?” asked Caspar; he didn’t think he’d seen it before.

“Sure is. This is only my third day,” the girl replied. A cursory glance at her uniform revealed a name badge pinned to her purple apron, red plastic in the shape of a cherry with the name _Lysithea_ scrawled upon it.

“Hope it’s going well!” Caspar told her. “Gee, I remember my third day at work… That was tiring—!”

“We haven’t got all day,” Linhardt sighed at him. He then addressed Lysithea. “My apologies. Can I get a… strawberry? Medium scoop?”

“Yup.” And Lysithea looked expectantly at Caspar.

The young man was ogling at the selection before him; the ice cream flavours in little tubs behind the stall’s glass window were each labelled in flowing handwriting. One caught his eye. “Oh, man, you have gingerbread ice cream!? What does that even taste like!?”

Lysithea shrugged. “I don’t know, do I? Why don’t you buy it and find out?”

That made Linhardt release a chortle.

Caspar nodded. “Hm, good idea. I’ll take a large, please!”

“No you won’t,” muttered Linhardt.

“True, I’d probably throw up. Then, a medium, please!”

“Sure,” said Lysithea, readying her scoops.

As she got their makeshift lunch prepared, Caspar whispered to Linhardt. “So, like, when _will_ we plan the wedding?”

Linhardt shrugged nonchalantly. “Whenever we get round to it, I suppose.”

“Can we get round to it tonight?”

“Don’t you have wyvern hockey with Leonie tonight?”

“Ugh!” Caspar grunted. “Stupid wyvern hockey, getting in the way of my wedding plans!”

“You guys’re getting married?” asked Lysithea, handing Linhardt his strawberry cone. The scoop on top was pastel pink – the same colour as her eyes – and hid real chunks of the fruit inside. Atop, a glacé cherry had been placed delicately.

“Yeah!” Caspar told her.

“Huh, congrats,” she said, arm working powerfully to scoop out his gingerbread treat. “You don’t look old enough, that’s all.”

“And you don’t look old enough to be working here,” Linhardt said. “Yet here you are.”

“Ugh, my _parents_ made me get this job,” she muttered. “Besides, I’m twenty!”

“Youthful twenty.” Lin looked genuinely surprised.

Lysithea handed Caspar his cone, and Linhardt paid up. The two young men said their goodbyes and made their way back through the Galleria. Before long, Linhardt pointed to a bench.

Caspar took a lick of his ice cream as he sat down and felt his eyes widen at once. The taste was perfect, tasting of pure, concentrated gingerbread complete with a tang of spice as he swallowed. How ice cream, one of the coldest treats available, could manage to warm him was beyond his knowledge; even so, the spice heated his throat comfortably. “Wow. I think they used magic to make this flavour,” Caspar said in all seriousness.

“Magic doesn’t work like that,” Linhardt told him.

“Well, whatever they did, it’s awesome!” Caspar laughed, happiness shooting fireworks through his brain. He looked over at his fiancé, taking delicate licks of his own ice cream with the lip of his tongue. “Say, gimme some of yours.”

“Just don’t slobber all over it.” Linhardt offered his cone reluctantly to Caspar, who bit into the sugary goodness on top with his front teeth. “Ugh! Freak!”

“What?” Caspar asked through his mouthful, feeling the fruitiness of the strawberry mingle with the spice in the back of his throat. The combination was perfect.

“You just _bit_ my ice cream!”

“You told me not to slobber on it!”

Linhardt’s face was the most alert Caspar had seen it all day: eyes wide, brows raised, almost panicked. “Please,” he said quietly, “remind me why I’m marrying you?”

And Caspar barked a laugh, scooting up the bench to press his shoulder into Linhardt’s. “Because you _lurve_ me.”

“Mm, yes,” he agreed, a reluctant smile playing upon his lips. “Somehow I do _lurve_ you.”

Caspar pressed his nose against Linhardt’s own and gave it a little rub. Nose rubbing was perhaps seen as corny, but it was a habit the two of them had picked up upon starting dating, and they had never grown out of it. The tip of Linhardt’s nose was chilly as always, but he let out a little giggle as he leant closer, kissing Caspar on the lips.

The strawberry flavour danced upon Caspar’s tongue as he kissed back, and he hungrily pressed for more before his fiancé pulled away with excited eyes. Caspar knew what those eyes warned. “Not in public, I know…” he sulked.

“It _is_ tempting though. Your gingerbread lips taste quite nice.” Linhardt checked the watch upon his wrist, giving a sigh. “I’ve got to get back to work soon.”

“Yeah, me too,” Caspar said. Somehow, his vigour for work had dissipated, caught up in his passion for Linhardt. Exercising was positively dull in comparison. “Say, maybe I’ll skip wyvern hockey tonight.”

Linhardt had returned to licking his ice cream. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Caspar grinned. “I’d much rather spend the time with you.”

“Good choice.” And Lin rewarded him with another strawberry-flavoured kiss, his lips so chilly, yet still so inviting. "You can help me plan the wedding."


	7. Construct-a-Cuddle - The Clerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annette Dominic spends her days bringing joy to childrens’ lives, but not every day is busy. When she sits alone in her store, she cannot help thinking about her missed opportunities – her misplaced potential. When she has the power to be a gremory, why does she work in a humble plushie store? She merely wants to do something good with her talents.

“Little blue bear, chase away the nightmares! A kiss on the nose, and you’re ready to… goes!” Annette Dominic sang happily as she thrust the fully-assembled stuffed bear out to the little boy before her. He excitedly kissed his new plushie on the nose. “He’s all yours, now! Here you go!” Annette chirped, handing the toy to its new owner.

“Thank you,” the boy’s caregiver said earnestly, and the two of them headed out of the shop.

Annette was left alone, and she heaved a sigh from puffed-out hamster cheeks. She hopped up onto the front counter, sitting daintily atop it, and began to swing her legs. Weekdays could be so boring sometimes; children were at school, adults were at work, and _Construct-a-Cuddle_ attracted few customers.

Now it was just her and the dulcet tones of a _Walt Daphnel_ movie ballad drifting down from the speakers in the ceiling, the rest of the store being empty.

Luckily for Annette, that suited her just fine. Making sure nobody was around to see, she reached beneath the counter and grabbed a huge, heavy, dark purple book off of the shelf.

_Reason Magic: Advanced_

She didn’t know why exactly she wanted to learn magic; the professions that came with it didn’t suit her one bit. She loathed the idea of joining Fódlan’s military, and even more repulsive was the idea of joining the police. Sothis forbid. Faith magic was much more practical – her wife Mercedes had learnt it when pursuing a job as a doctor – but, for some reason she couldn’t wrap her head around, Reason interested Annette the most.

As such, she opened the tome where she’d left her last dog-ear: _Sagittae._

And she groaned. She had not been doing well with _Sagittae_ recently. She’d mastered the spells in _Reason Magic’s_ first two tomes, _Beginner_ and _Intermediate,_ but the first spell in _Advanced’s_ book had been a pain.

Thus, Annette hopped down from the counter, holding the open tome flat in her right palm. She’d found her left hand to be most efficient when channelling dark magic, and thus flexed it, ready to cast.

“Warm up first,” she whispered. Facing the back of the shop, she nodded. She could do this. She’d warmed up with _Cutting Gale_ a hundred times before, finding it simple enough to ease her into the harder spells.

Closing her eyes, Annette imagined the Faerghan winter winds rushing past her ears with its baleful howls; she imagined the chill sweeping across the expanse of her skin, and the blizzard whipping through her hair. She felt _Cutting Gale_ at her fingertips, ready to slice through the air at her command.

Annette took a deep breath, remembering the book’s instructions. She had the commands at the front of her mind – _‘think like an archer, and release an arrow from your palm’_ – and she turned on her heel, eyes snapping open, ready to strike midair--

Until she found a customer standing in front of her. His eyes were wide, lips pressed tightly together. 

“Oh! Uh!” Annette lowered her arm – shaking away the tiny winds whipping around her hand – and emitted a nervous laugh. “Hi! Uh, how can I help you!?”

The young man blinked at her, eyes a striking mixture of scarlet and coral, before he looked away. “I mean, I can come back, if you’re busy…”

 _Oh, Annie!_ she scolded herself. How could she have been so foolish, goofing off in the middle of the store? She didn’t voice this. Instead, she put on her usual cheerful voice. “No, no, not at all!” she smiled.

Upon a closer look, she recognised this boy. His warm brown skin and cool black curls were unmistakable: he was a cleaner here in the Galleria. Annette often saw him after closing time, mopping the floor or emptying trash cans whilst wearing dull grey overalls with the Galleria logo stitched on the front pocket. Up close, Annette thought this boy looked younger than her. Perhaps still even a teen.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he said with a shrug.

“Of course! Are you looking to construct your own cuddle today?” she chirped.

“Yeah,” he said, and turned to one wall. Those eyes scoured the shelves before him, at the toys lined up awaiting their forever homes. “There’s this cute girl I saw. I wanted to get something for her.”

Annette felt a delight tickle at her chest, soothing her pounding, adrenaline-stuffed heart. “Cute!” she exclaimed. Shoving her tome back beneath the counter, she skipped over to where her customer stood. “Do you know what she might like?”

“Hm…” He pored over the selection. “How much d’they cost?”

“Depends on how much you customise them,” she replied. “If you just get the standard stuffed plush, about 300 Gold. If you want to add more--”

“Nah, thanks.” The young man’s brow wavered, and he put his hand in his pocket to cause a soft _clink_ ing of coins. “300’s about my budget.”

Annette supposed being a Galleria cleaner didn’t pay great. Looking his uniform up and down, she saw a plastic name tag pinned below his collar. _Cyril,_ it read. She smiled. “Well, luckily our range is perfectly adorable without any customisation!”

Cyril’s eyes widened as they settled upon a toy. Stepping forward, he grabbed a bunny – lop-eared, with pristine white fur and a pair of pastel pink eyes. “This guy. This guy’s perfect.”

He chose not to stuff his own version of the bunny, instead content to take the one that had been on the shelf. All the better for Annette – she would get to stuff her own replacement when no customers were around; it was one way of occupying herself.

As she rang Cyril up back at the counter, he spoke. “So you’re into magic, huh?”

A heat rose to her cheeks at once. “What!?” So he’d not forgotten about her close shave – one more second and she could have sent _Cutting Gale_ into his chest. “Oh, no, not really!”

“You had the purple tome. I’ve heard the purple tome means you’re really good.” His face was entirely serious – curious, almost.

“It’s nothing more than a hobby, really…”

“Then why’re you blushing?”

Annette’s cheeks grew hotter. She looked down to where the tome sat beneath the counter and pushed it further back on the shelf with her knee.

Cyril shrugged. “If it’s somethin’ you’re good at, you shouldn’t hide it away. Heck, I wish I had any sorta talent as cool as that.” 

“Hey, don’t say that!” Annette told him, watching him hold the toy bunny close to his chest. _So dejected._ So young, and with such a job at the Galleria, Annette wondered whether Cyril was okay. “Are you interested in magic?” she asked.

He shrugged again, as if he held the weight of Fódlan on his skinny shoulders. “Sure. As interested as anybody else is.”

“How come you didn’t get into it, then?” Yet as the words left her mouth, she realised they were more rhetorical than intended. Yes, perhaps she was asking her past self; the younger Annette who had always looked upon the mages and gremories of Fódlan with such utter awe, wishing they would use their incredible powers for something other than destruction. Why would a force of magic-users not be made for actual good instead of as weapons to be pinned upon the country’s martial belt?

“I never could,” said Cyril. “With how I was brought up, it just wasn’t possible.”

Annette sighed a little. Not everybody could be as lucky as her. Not everybody could pick up something as studious as magic as nothing more than a hobby. And when she spoke up, she spoke from the heart, hardly aware of the words. “Would you like me to teach you?” she offered.

Cyril was a stranger. Nothing more than a customer, come into her shop to choose a gift for a loved one. It seemed he knew this. “Huh? What? Teaching me magic?”

Teaching. Annette felt her eyes widen, felt a cloud clear inside her mind. _Teaching._ Teaching young people how to pursue a hobby – how to use magic for good, for fun, rather than for war. “Yeah!” she said, watching panicked confusion cross Cyril’s face. “Why not! I’m great at the basics! I could teach you! And any of your friends!”

Cyril pulled the plushie even closer to his chest. “I mean… if you wanna…? It’d be cool to learn. How much would lessons cost?”

“Forget money! It’ll be for fun!”

Cyril smiled, and his youthful face lit up with an exuberance that suited him handsomely. “If you’re sure. Listen, Miss, I gotta run. But I can call back when the store closes to talk about it then.”

Annette was too excited, feeling her chest bubble over in delight. “Yes! Sure! And let me know how it goes with the girl you like, okay?”

He gave an awkward laugh. “Uh, sure. Catch you later!”

He jogged out of the store. Whether he truly was late for something, or whether he just wanted to be away from Annette and her overjoyed giggling, she didn’t know. She didn’t mind particularly either way – she had found a passion.

Using magic for good. Reason lessons for underprivileged youth. Finally putting her passions to use. _Construct-a-Cuddle_ could still be a day job, but Annette could not wait to get home with Mercie tonight to tell her all about the new path she’d pursue.

A teacher. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?


	8. Fhirdiad & Enbarr — The Barista

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is no secret that Dimitri hasn’t coped well with the death of his father. All he wants is to repay a debt to the person he owes the most to. Yet he needs help finding the perfect gift.

“She’s too good to me.” The words slipped out without Dimitri intending.

“You okay, Boss?”

Dimitri looked up. Ashe sat across the small wooden table from him, cradling a paper coffee cup and sipping from it lightly.

“Please don’t call me that…” Dimitri muttered.

Ashe chuckled. “Sorry. It’s just too tempting sometimes. You _do_ look like your father.”

_Yes, so I’ve been told._

The sting of being reminded of his father never faded. Dimitri had tried desperately to heal — had taken years of recuperation to try to steady his broken mind — and yet still he was a mess. He had been ill for a while. Dimitri didn’t think he’d ever been truly sound of mind — recalling back to his childhood, after his mother’s sudden death — but his father’s passing had made him crumble.

He shuddered. The paper cup he clutched in his own hands effused heat, and he brought it up to his lips to take a long drink. Chamomile tea still didn’t taste the same as it used to, but at least there was _some_ flavour. At least he’d regained that sense even the slightest bit. That was something to be proud of, so he’d been told.

He placed the cup down and sighed, his thoughts returning to Edelgard. “How can I repay her, Ashe?”

“Repay who?” Ashe’s voice was delicate. They were a quiet person, and they understood that Dimitri needed a gentle hand sometimes. They were the perfect colleague to work with. Granted, they worked in _Lonato’s_ — the book store attached to Dimitri’s coffee shop — but Dimitri considered them a colleague nonetheless; they visited him often enough during their breaks, at least. Today had not been an exception, and Dimitri had taken his own break earlier to join them in some tea.

Dimitri returned to their question. “I want to repay my sister. She helped me through so much, even when she had so much going on herself. And yet even still, when she’s the head of the company, she still takes time out of her day to check on me.”

Ashe gave their signature shy smile. “That’s what families _do,_ Dimitri. Christophe does the same for me and my siblings… It doesn’t mean you need to feel indebted to them.”

“I’d still like to do something, though,” Dimitri shrugged. “I haven’t exactly been kind to her over the last few years. My father’s death hit me harder than I’d like to admit...”

Ashe’s eyes flickered back and forth almost awkwardly. They knew that. Of course they knew that; everyone who’d known Dimitri in the aftermath of Lambert’s sudden death had seen his scattered, shattered mental state. He muttered an apology.

“No, don’t apologise!” Ashe said, reaching across the table to him. Dimitri lowered his cup and took Ashe’s fingers in his own; they were warm and soft — comfortingly so. “We can look for a gift for your sister. What does she like?”

Dimitri racked his brains. What _did_ she like? When they’d first met as children, Dimitri had gifted her an antique dagger — a beautiful, intricately-engraved blade of silver with a hilt of deep purple. Dimitri had loved it so much when he’d seen it in the vintage store as a child that his father had caved and bought it for him.

Edelgard… hadn’t liked it quite as much as he had. Her words still rang in his head upon being offered it:

_“Why would you give me something like this?”_

That had been _more_ than a little bit embarrassing.

Before Dimitri could answer, however, two small plates were set on the table in front of him and Ashe, each holding a small pastry. Dimitri blinked down at them for a second, confused, before looking up to their waiter.

Dedue Molinaro stood over the table, wearing a flour-stained apron and his sleek silver hair back into a ponytail. Dimitri’s heart flipped inside of his stomach, his lips parting slightly, before Ashe spoke over him.

“Dedue! Thank you, but we didn’t order these.”

Dedue shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I thought you two deserved a treat. You work hard, so I made you a little something.”

Ashe gave a chuckle, picking up their pastry. “Thank you so much!” They bit into it, taking a mouthful of crust as well as some of the jam and custard puddled atop it. After relishing for a second, they spoke through their mouthful. “Mm, wow! ‘mazin’!” 

“Dimitri,” Dedue turned towards the barista, fixing him with his fascinating turquoise eyes, “I will take the cost of these out of my paycheck. I just wanted to offer you something, but I won’t use the shop’s ingredients for free.”

Yet Dimitri found himself drowning. Dedue’s eyes were oceanic; with their deep colour — half-green, half-blue, with flecks of white within like foam upon the waves — they could be described as nothing other than beautiful. The man’s whole face was beautiful: symmetrical and angular, with each feature perfect. He could have been carved from marble, in all his stoic beauty—

“Dimitri...?” Ashe’s small voice pulled him from his daydreaming.

 _Oh. Of course._ “No, Dedue, please,” Dimitri insisted, snapping back to life. “There’s no need at all. Would you...” and he gestured to the empty chairs at the table, “care to sit with us?”

Ashe nodded in agreement, and a smile cracked across Dedue’s scarred lips. “Thank you,” he said, taking a chair.

“We were just discussing a gift for Dimitri’s sister,” Ashe explained.

“Ms. von Hresvelg?” Dedue asked.

Dimitri nodded, biting into his own pastry. It was still hot and flaky; buttery and soft, with the mellow sweetness of custard and sharp tang of jam marrying beautifully against his tongue. He let his eyes roll back as he savoured it, only stopping to answer Dedue’s question. “Mm. Her name is Edelgard.”

Dedue chuckled at his reaction.

“So, what does she like?” Ashe asked. “Clothes? Perfume? Flowers?”

Dimitri’s eyes snapped open and he shook his head. “No, my sister is very practical. I think the ribbons in her hair are the only way she knows how to accessorise…”

Ashe and Dedue both laughed at that. Dimitri hadn’t intended it as a joke.

He cleared his throat. “Her best friend works here in the Galleria. If she’s friends with him, perhaps she’d like the wares in his shop…?”

“Because they have the same interests?” Dedue asked. “A smart theory.”

Heat rushed through Dimitri’s veins. A compliment from Dedue? He felt his cheeks grow warm and hurriedly took a mouthful of pastry to stop from stuttering a ‘thank you’.

“Sounds like a good place to start, if nothing else!” Ashe chirped. They dusted off their fingers on the paper napkins Dedue had brought over. “I have my break for another twenty minutes. If you want company to the shop, Dimitri, I’d be happy to join!”

“As would I,” said Dedue. “It’s nice to be out of the heat of the kitchen.”

Dimitri nodded as he continued with his pastry. “Of course!”

* * *

He wasn’t alone for once.

Walking through the Galleria, the early afternoon warmth heating his face in a calming, familiar way, Dimitri felt positively happy. Even feeling a few eyes on him and his ragged little party as they explored the mall didn't disrupt his spirits. He didn't blame them for staring, though.

Dimitri was tall, broad, and knew he looked silly wearing _Fhirdiad & Enbarr’s _ barista uniform. He didn’t think that his unshaven face, pink scar over one eye, and scraggly ponytail helped his cause. Ashe’s soft face, neat hair, and attractive androgynous face set them apart. They were short, skinny, and could melt hearts with their huge green eyes and freckled nose. Dedue couldn’t have contrasted against the two of them more fiercely — huge, muscular, and astoundingly handsome, he was bound to draw attention from everybody he came across.

They looked an odd crew, all walking around in their work uniforms together, looking thoroughly mismatched from one another. A barista, a baker, and a book shop manager; they seemed the subject of a child’s nursery rhyme. But Dimitri was glad nonetheless — he had two great people beside him, an amazing sister he was on a mission for, and that was all that mattered.

Walking next to Dedue, Dimitri felt his eyes widen as he inhaled. The man from Duscur effused an incredible scent: of sugar and butter and the homey warmth of sweets.

Dimitri couldn’t resist. “You… smell nice,” he managed, looking timidly up to Dedue’s eyes.

The man cocked his head, deep voice rumbling from within his chest. “I do?”

“Mm. Like pastries and cakes and hot, sweet things.” _Wait. Crap._ “Um, that came out wrong. I don’t mean to say you’re hot and sweet, I just—”

Dedue gave a hearty laugh, one that made him smile wider than Dimitri had ever witnessed before. It was a beautiful sight; his face was usually so stoic and still — rugged, and scarred by tiny white lines that Dimitri had never plucked up the courage to ask about. “Don’t fret," Dedue told him with a warm smile. "I know what you mean.”

 _Know that I think you’re hot and sweet?_ Warmth rushed to Dimitri’s cheeks, and he hurriedly changed the subject. “There’s the place El’s friend works at.” He pointed towards a shopfront by the wall opposite, wedged between a greeting card store and a florist’s. In comparison, it stood out a mile.

 _The Dark._ Dimitri wasn’t quite sure how to describe the building they approached, with its name in purple lettering printed onto a pure black banner. An occult store? Theurgy shop? The outlet for Reason magic practisers? He had no idea. All he knew was that the scent of incense seemed to seep through its walls and windows to permeate the air around it. Behind its window, candles burned low; an array of crystals, tomes, and incense sat upon a spread of cushions, and a dark purple and black curtain obscured the rest of the store from the prying eyes of window shoppers.

Dimitri swallowed; he was _very_ out of his element. But this was for El — for the person he cared about most. He pushed open the door to _The Dark,_ heard a bell ring gently and ominously overhead, and stepped inside.

Through the hazy candlelight of the shop, Dimitri squinted to see. The walls were coated in a dark purple wallpaper, with a dark wooden floor. Everything about the place was _dark._ At least it fit its name, he supposed.

Shelves and bookcases stuffed the shop, while occasional tables and cabinets filled the remaining space. It felt very cramped, and very specialist. And Edelgard’s best friend worked here.

Dimitri shook his head. _“What_ am I doing…?” he muttered to himself as the door jingled shut behind them.

Behind the counter before him stood a man, drowned in shadow. Through the candlelight — the only light source the room had to offer — his pale skin looked almost waxy, as though he weren’t real. He took one glance up at Dimitri and his friends, and his stiff cheeks creaked into a smile. A _‘snrk’_ left his nose, and he looked back down to whatever he’d been doing, his dark black waves of hair falling over one eye.

After a moment of awkward silence, Ashe piped up. “Oh, I _like_ this place. I like this a lot!” They laid eyes as big as saucers upon a shelf of herbal tea packets, and dashed over to them. Dedue looked a little more rigid. He stood by the door, fingers delicately taking a frond of the sharp-looking shrub beside him, and began to inspect it.

Dimitri sighed. It seemed he was on his own for this one. He took a breath, steeled himself, and began to inspect the shop. He had no idea which incense smelled good, what each crystal was meant to symbolise, or how one was meant to wear half of the fanciful jewellery lining the shelves. Each spellbook had a name too complicated for him to even _begin_ pronouncing, and he had no idea where to start with the traditional medicine wrapped in paper bags.

 _Oh,_ Dimitri thought, feeling his shoulders slump. _I’m hopeless._ Would Edelgard even _like_ any of this stuff? Was this up her alley, or were her best friend’s interests different from her own—?

_Her best friend._

Dimitri turned back to the counter, seeing the man’s glowering eyes upon him. They were a shade of light, almost-yellow green — a snake’s eyes — and they didn’t leave Dimitri’s own.

_Here goes nothing._

He approached the counter, clearing his throat. “Um, is someone called Hubert here?” he asked listlessly.

The man stood a little straighter, eyes narrowing with their chartreuse haze. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m... Edelgard’s brother. Edelgard von Hresvelg? Well, I’m her step-brother, technically, but…”

“I’ve heard of you,” the man said, eyes flickering up and down Dimitri’s body. “How can I help?”

Dimitri heaved a sigh of relief. So _this_ was Hubert. He seemed amicable enough, he supposed. Although he looked like he could be _very_ difficult if he wanted to be. Of _course_ Edelgard would find a friend in somebody so mysterious. “I’m looking for a gift for her, “ Dimitri began, “but… she can be rather—”

“— difficult to buy for,” Hubert finished his sentence, sucking in his cheeks a little. “Yes…”

 _Ha._ At least Dimitri wasn’t the only one who thought so.

“Okay then. Here,” Hubert said, kneeling down behind the counter and pulling something out from a shelf down there. “These are fresh in. Might be a place to start.” When he stood back up, he had a book in his hands; thick, hard-backed, and stunning. He set it down on the counter and brushed its cover, — its deep brown, gold-trimmed cover depicting a map of an empire. Bold letters called out from it.

_Adrestian History Uncovered_

Dimitri picked it up gently, surprised by its weight, and turned it around. The back cover gave him some hints.

_The rise and fall of the Crest system have affected the lands of Adrestia in innumerable ways. Learn of the intricacies of the Empire’s past, from Wilhelm I’s reign all the way through to the modern day._

Dimitri felt himself raise an eyebrow. “My sister hates Crests.”

Hubert flashed him a wicked smile. “As does the author. Practically all she _does_ in this book is condemn the Crest system. It’s why I ordered them in.”

“You ordered them in… for Edelgard?”

Hubert stood back and raised his chin a little. “When I heard the author had released them, I couldn’t resist. I knew Edelgard would be all over them.” He chuckled — a cold-sounding thing — and widened his eyes almost threateningly at Dimitri. “But I suppose I’ll keep them hidden until you’ve given her this one. Make sure she doesn’t get to it before you do.”

A relieved, elated laugh sounded from Dimitri’s throat before he could stop it. Finally, he had something to gift to Edelgard — a way of saying thanks after all she’d done for him. He had something she would love and cherish. “That’s… so thoughtful of you!” Dimitri told Hubert. “Thank you _so_ much. I truly couldn’t think of a better gift.”

One corner of the man’s thin lips curled upwards: a cruel smile that set the contents of Dimitri’s stomach to ice. “You say that,” he purred, voice like venom, “but just wait until you see the price.”

Dimitri’s eyes flickered down to the price, printed at the bottom of the back cover. They widened. “ _Goddess,”_ he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was late! Everything got very hectic but it was so nice to finally sit down and write some of this again. Thank you for sticking around if you've read this <3


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